Londoners turned out in their thousands for the opening of the Buffet in '31

Born of the lack of a quality all you could eat restaurant in 1930’s, depression-stricken London, the Astray Buffet first flung open it’s doors on Fleet Street in 1931 (in the process, injuring a sleeping drunk who’d set up camp in the foyer, according to the Associated Press).

With it’s prime locale — merely metres from the Royal Courts of Justice and a short stroll from the Headjob and Handbrake — the original Astray Buffet soon gained notoriety for all the wrong reasons. In short, those who could afford to indulge in it’s delicacies — namely, the legal professionals and journalists that frequented that quarter of London — would never get the chance.

And delicacies they were. Giant Alaskan crab, caught, iced and shipped direct from the Bering Sea, individually, hand-washed Estonian caviar from the icy waters of the Baltic and black, summer truffles freshly barrowed from the Dordogne Region of France. No expense was spared, no rock left unturned in the pursuit of culinary distinction.

The Astray Buffet’s owner and founder, Cartwright P. Moochjeenie Senior, a trail-blazing entrepreneur and philanthropist had attained his wealth in Meat Oil Cream, following the Saggy Neck Skin (SNS) epidemic of the 1890’s.

Ironically it was the Fleet Street press that had first hinted at the SNS outbreak in 1882, fuelled it’s flames well into the new century and finally pissed on the coals of the the story in 1907 with their incessant praise of the wonder-cure, Moochjeenie’s Meat Oil Cream.

It was a story completely based on bullshit from the outset. A story that had made Moochjeenie a millionaire over and over again. There were no real losers. Moochjeenie’s Meat Oil Cream was ridiculously overpriced, making it affordable to only the top echelon of London Society. The cream did nothing in the way of reducing the effects of SNS but made those who applied it, almost irresistible to the slobbering advances of lap dogs — of which the top echelon of London society loved and owned many. They may as well have slapped Senor Pooch — the dog food for fussy eaters — on their saggy necks, such was it’s effect. It was a situation made entirely of win.

By 1930, following the stock-market crash of the previous year and with the great depression taking a stranglehold on the capital, Moochjeenie’s ambitious plans for an Astray Buffet had begun to take shape. By the following year, AB was a reality.

The scene soon turned ugly when socialites were denied entry to the Buffet

A fanfare signalled it’s opening. Dignitaries, politicians and socialites queued for hours on a misty December morning, waiting to be seated and treated to a feast the likes not before sampled in London. None were granted entry.

It was the sleeping drunk who’d been smacked in the head with the door, who was the first to be offered a table at Astray Buffet. His name, Jeremiah S. Quarterpouch. A name later given a second squirt at fame as the main protagonist in Credence Clearwater Revival’s gibberish hit, Jeremiah was a Bullfrog. Reputedly once quizzed on the Bullfrog reference, Jeremiah replied, “fuck if I know!” before asking for a slug on that vodka.

Moochjeenie spent the following 90 minutes walking the streets of Aldwych and Covent Garden, dodging puddles of piss and extending an open invitation to every prostitute and panhandler he passed. By six p.m. the Buffet was filled to capacity with all manner of social degenerates, drunkards, sinners and reprobates. The aristocracy was outraged, the Buffet was swinging and not a penny had changed hands. An institution was born.

Moochjeenie’s plan to rid himself of his Meat Oil Cream wealth had begun well. His annual cash burn operating the original Astray Buffet was comfortably into six figures. He opened another in Greenwich in ‘32 and a third in Clapham in ‘33. All we’re gobbling cash like there was no tomorrow. The homeless were employed and receiving top-flight training and ridiculous wages, feeding their vagrant friends top class cuisine and fine wine for free. It was a plan that couldn’t fail.

By early 1945, with the war still dragging on and almost entirely out of his Meat Oil Cream cash, Moochjeenie took it upon himself to kill Hitler. A feat he achieved with the aid of a German Luftwaffe uniform, a  novelty dog pooh for diversion and a BB gun. He expected to return home via the parlours and coffee shops of Amsterdam to foreclosure and repossession notices by the dozen but it wasn’t to be. Instead, his accountant informed him that he was in fact now, richer than ever.

It seems that, although a great deal of the Buffet’s patrons over the years had been too drunk to scratch, many who had gone on to find their feet, had recalled Cartwright J. Moochjeenie’s generosity in their wills. One brilliantly disturbed gentleman who had died of late, left a personal fortune valued at 7.4 million pounds to be split between Moochjeenie and his cat, Mr. Twinkles ‘The Traindriver’ Purrington.

to be continued….

The Mooc has the breath of an angel and can move sideways quicker than you. He is at once talkative and shy, with a razor wit and bayonet smile. Men are known to contemplate gayness upon catching  his scent – a sort of wasabi infused honey. His skin glows like a commercial. Neither tall nor short (4 foot 23 on the old scale) he’s both chiseled and supple in equal measures. As an interesting side note, Scott Baio once commented on his feet.

A youthful Mooc battled Bill Cosby – though Bill was young and impressive then – and would have had him too if the law of the day had allowed his tactic.

At a not-so-recent ceremony he employed a tuxedo so powerful and ingratiating that he received an on-the-spot lifetime achievement award. All this at the age of 26 and with little or no achievement to speak of. That was, that is, the Mooc. Enigmatic, sure, phlegmatic, yeah why not, passionate, without doubt, egotistic, fuck off!

The tux aside, clothes and the Mooc have enjoyed an on again, off again relationship. He wears them with aplomb when he does and swings majestically when he does not.

Pleasantries are not required in his presence. He’ll force you down if you persist and drag you if he feels the need. Once at a rally for those in need he gave a speech so inspiring, 17 died and 12 were injured. On another occasion he argued that colour didn’t exist. He won that! He wins most.

I don’t know what it is about meetings but if you contribute to their setting up and provide one or two insightful comments, middle management offers generally tend to flood in. Meetings and producing reports.

I produced a report on the frequency of meetings, which concluded that, “meetings are good”. This report was then discussed at an executive management meeting and the findings relayed through our director at our section meeting. It appears Management agreed with my findings adding the word “very”. “Very meetings are good”.

Another meeting was held to look at the placement of the word “very” in my initial statement and it was decided by a majority (eight votes to five) that the statement should read “Meetings are very good”.

I now have a car space in the buildings basement, my gross annual salary has increased by $12,000 and the Chief Executive Officer chatted about the intricacies of Thai cooking with me at the urinal on Tuesday afternoon – I stood there nodding intelligently, offering timely remarks and praying for my stream to begin – all due to that single report.

I’m currently working on another.

The day is hellish. Its as muggy as Hades with a hulking swell and a vertical driving rain that’s kept everyone off deck. I’m told – perhaps presumptuously – that we’ll probably be barging the bilge through the thwacker before any respite from the starboard for neigh on six. Whatever the fuck that means. By my reckoning we’re still making decent time though, pushing on through open water aided by a 45 knot sou-wester toward Sulat Sunda – the passage of sea that separates the Indonesian islands of Java and Sumatra.

The third officer in charge – a Filipino by the name of Raul – is at the wheel on the bridge keeping an eye on the huge radar screen that plots the course of our vessel – the 65,000 ton freighter, Alejandro Rickmars out of Liberia. He talks fondly of his girl back in Cebu, Marie, a four foot seven chiropodist with bucked teeth. Beaming, he hands me a tattered photo from his wallet. I recoil in fright at the sight of her, but disguise it as a swell-induced side step. Singapore is the last stop on his current contract. From there its a night in a cheap hotel and double prop jump across the Strait and back to her loving arms. Part of me envies the little fucker.

“That’s not right” says Raul with a troubled tone. I’m thinking the exact same thing. She’s got some big ass teeth, but wisely I keep this observation to myself. With a few clicks of a mouse he zooms in on an area of the radar to the stern of our vessel, before turning a ghostly pale. “P..P..Pirates” he stutters, then at once grabs for the phone.

Without warning it begins. With a gigantic crack from above, a rocket propelled grenade takes out our communications tower and with it, any chance of rescue. A secondary blast destroys the port side of the bridge as a chunk of searing, hardened steel rips a crater in Raul’s chest the size of an eighties mobile phone. Lying in a lake of his own blood he seems more confused than in pain. With his last breath he looks up at me almost pleadingly before gently placing the photo of Marie into the hole in his chest. Its touching but gross. I do a little sick in my mouth. There’s nothing I can do for him now. The ship’s cat Mrs. Twinkles has already taken off with the remains of his heart. That crazy little kitten.

For a moment everything swims before my eyes, a dizziness consumes me and there’s a ringing in my ears. Then, like a light being switched on, my training kicks in. Its as quick as that. I steady myself on the chart table and take four deep breaths. Already I’m formulating a plan and part one is to find some mouthwash.

Part of me knew this day would come. I’d spent the last 20 years running. Occasionally even now I’d wake smeared in makeup, naked but for a pair of ladies cotton briefs tied around my head, gibbering in Hindi, holding a carving knife to the neighbours cat’s throat. Things had to change. This will end today. This must end today.

I make like a panther for the cook’s pantry on B deck. There really is no need to be on all fours and it slows me down – a lot – but this is who I must be now. Now until this is over. A panther or perhaps a leopard. No, let’s go with a panther. I like panthers.

To the untrained eye the cook’s pantry is a cornucopia of foreign fare and kitchenware but to me its so much more! I mentally begin to take stock of my assets before making out whispered voices in the hallway, then kitchen. At once I recognise the language, Bhasa. “Indonesians”, I scrawl in raspberry jam with a toothpick on the wall followed by the number “III”.

I already know their modus operandi. They’d have been tipped off by dock workers, probably in Jakarta as to which of our containers held the most costly yet compact booty. They’d be selective and make a beeline straight for the three or four containers out of the three thousand we were toting. The numbers ruled out coincidence. The cache? Probably New Zealand housewife porn or the finest Fijian whisky. The victim? Doubtless a big multinational insurance company. And that’s what broke my heart, what tore me up inside. Why God, why? Well it wasn’t going to happen, no sirrreee, not today, not on my watch!

I begin to nibble – a handful of chilly peanuts from Peru, some rollmops from the Netherlands, something brown from New Zealand – in preparation for a fight to the death that may last for minutes, yet may last for days. After 30 minutes of nibbling I’m slightly over-preapared and feel like taking a nap. A shot of buck fifty Ukrainian Vodka snaps me back from my reverie. I finalise my plan. A plan that prays on our most basic desire! Its so devilishly simple yet appetising it may just work. I smear great swathes of Nutella across my near naked body. This has nothing to do with the plan.

The microwave is an aging Samsung but is going to have to do. I’d found a caterers tin of little German hot-dogs (Winklehoffer brand) and although it pains me to me use them, I set about puncturing the top of the tin with a dozen small holes. Across it on one side I sprinkle a liberal quantity of baking soda, the other, chilly powder and just a pinch of paprika. I set the Samsung’s dial to defrost and power it up. The hook was set, the bait was the tastiest food known to man, here fishy, fishy, fishy.

I didn’t have long to wait as the leader of the pirates (let’s call him wispy goatee because he’s got a wispy goatee) catches the scent of the delicious little medleys of miscellaneous meat and leads his two men across the mess to the microwave. Cautiously, as if in slow motion he opens the door. I take cover. Lunch is served.

With the sudden change in pressure a scalding stream of brine, chilly and paprika spews forth from the microwave. Wispy goatee takes the brunt of the boiling jet directly to the face. He screams and goes down in a sizzling heap. Confusion reigns for what seems like an eternity before the baking soda has a chance to mix with the remaining brine in the tin and do its thing – BOOM – and the officer’s mess explodes in a mix of microwave, hot-dogs and pirates.

As the smoke clears and I take in the carnage all around me I allow myself the smallest of grins, for I know my demons, at least for now, can again rest.

“What the shit is to be fuck happening here?” demands the Captain, surveying the scene whilst struggling to swear in a second language. “What am I to be telling bloody to the authorities shit?” he adds, turning a sheet-like shade of pale.
“Relax Cap’n”, I reply and offer him vodka with a tilt of the bottle, “tell them nothing”, I shrug.
“And bloody hell how do we get rid of mess?” he replies, his voice cracking as he borders on hysteria. Almost on queue Mrs. Twinkles saunters through the door and begins chewing, ripping and licking at the blood, sinew, organs and muscle that wallpapers the officer’s mess. The Captain does a little sick.
“I think Mrs. Twinkles has got that taken care of Captain, don’t you?” I laugh heartily and slap him on the back.
“No you fuck dickhead, I think we are all go to jail!”